Us Against the World
by The Source Behind the Shadow
Summary: In a bitter war between Britain and America, Arthur's view of Americans had been tainted long ago. But when he's thrust into an unknown slice-of-nowhere due to Feliciano's lack of map skills, he is forced to depend upon an American, of all people, to survive. Perhaps Alfred, though living in the same world as Arthur, can teach Arthur how to live again despite their differences.


**Full Summary: **In a bitter war between Britain and America, Arthur's view of Americans had been tainted long ago. But when he's thrust into an unknown slice-of-nowhere due to Feliciano's lack of map skills, he is forced to depend upon an American, of all people, to survive. As America and Britain struggle to settle a dispute between themselves, they fail to notice the slow, but sure rise of a lost Prussia…until it's too late. With what could be the overthrow of both of their beloved countries, Arthur and Alfred must work together against almost impossible odds to defeat Prussia. Perhaps Alfred, though living in the same war torn world as Arthur, can teach him how to live again despite their differences.

**Warnings: **Violence, language, and yes, there will be yaoi. But in future chapters. After all, this _is_ USUK.

**Rating: **M. Just to be safe, ya know?

**Le Pairing~ **USUK is love. Yes. There's also gonna be a bit of GerIta and PruHun.

**Word Count: **2,391

Oh hey guys. I believe I'm back from the dead now. So uh, hi?

Anyway, I recently adopted some sort of Hetalia obsession, so I thought up this fic and I've got tons of ideas for it. Weird, huh?

And for any _Like Day and Night_ fans, I guess I'm taking a temporary hiatus from it. I just haven't gotten any inspiration for it whatsoever. But I _will_ finish it, just give me some time. I'm slow, as you guys already know. This fic is actually helping me get out of this creative slump.

So now I'll introduce you guys to "Us Against the World". Yay, we all love war-love-story-things, right? Hopefully.

Okay I'll shut up now. Welcome to the wonderfully, emotionally and physically scarred lives of Arthur Kirkland and Alfred Jones~

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Chapter One: War is Hell

Gunshots. Pleas for help. Cries filled with such an excruciating agony that only the hells of war could reduce a person to. Comrades lulled into an endless sleep by harsh metal handled by the hands of impetuous reapers who had no right in pinning such unruly death upon others.

Sweat dribbled down my profile, sticking the blonde locks of my hair to my face and dripping onto my dark green uniform, soaking into the layers upon layers of grime and mud and dirt and blood. I clutched my AK-47 as if it were my lifeline.

Wait.

It _is_ my lifeline.

In robotic like movements I continued to pull the trigger on the rifle that had become the judge of who lived, or who died. I watched as people that I hadn't even known existed before this horrendous encounter crash to the ground, stone dead. It was as if the people on the opposing side were faceless, empty souls. You saw them but you didn't. Why even take the time to notice their features? They'll die anyway. But sometimes it's impossible to shove the questions out of your mind. Your conscious begins to nag you. Did they have children? A family? A wife? A husband? People who were dear to them? Friends?

'_These people are…_people_. Why rage war on your own kind? They're no different from who we are.' _

As long as I live, I'll never forget that proclamation from the man who I'd dubbed my best friend. He'd attempted to nudge me into some kind of enlightenment that the people who are our _enemies _are the same as us. That was right before we'd slid into that foxhole, before that heart stopping moment when I'd witnessed three bullets pierce right through his chest, by the very same _animals _that he had just claimed are as _humane_ as us.

A slight breeze barely managed to ruffle my hair, which was caked with mud and grime, almost identical to my uniform. The thick, green canopy of trees above our heads cast an almost gloomy light upon the fairly medium sized clearing, dappling the churned up earth with dreary patches of gray. A storm was more than likely about to roll right above our heads.

I pulled the trigger once more, twice, three times, watching as the three men crashed to the ground with muffled cries of torment that were barely audible over the piercing roar of fighter planes and volleys.

"Arthur! Grenade!"

I was yanked from my musings when I heard the familiar cry of one of my comrades, Feliciano, who wrenched me to the side just in time as near the spot where I was perched just a few seconds ago erupted in a flash of bright orange flames. The ripple of the explosion had knocked us across the trench that we'd been nestled in, bits of grit flying into our eyes and filling our mouths with a dry, horrendous taste.

"Bloody hell," I coughed, positioning myself on my knees while facing the man who had just inadvertently saved my ass. "They're advancing towards us at an alarming rate. Why in the Queen's name hasn't the commander called us to retreat?" The other men in the foxhole nodded in agreement, all either firing their weapons or cranking out their canteens.

"Hell yeah! These Americans are a pain in the ass." A man by the name of Jack commented, reloading his rifle in one swift motion before returning his gaze to the battlefield.

"I say we retreat." Feliciano put in, almost a little desperate as he returned to his previous shooting position. I followed his example, crouching on one knee and hoisting my gun up out of the foxhole and peering above the edge. I winced inwardly as my gaze travelled over all of the dead bodies littering the ground. Either American or some of the dear faces of the people who I'd come to meet over the eight months I'd been in service, British bodies and American bodies alike lay spread across the field, either beside of each other or a few feet apart. Almost as if it were meant to be this way. I couldn't help but scowl at this trivial thought. In the end, would any of this even matter? What is it we're fighting over anyhow? Just as I was about to fire another round—

"_RETREAT!_"

I shot up at the sudden order, my finger accidentally pressing down on the trigger of my rifle. My eyes widened a fraction as I watched one of the Americans from across the battlefield cry out in agony as he clutched his arm, blood trickling through his fingers as the bullet no doubt pierced deep into his bicep. The man was too far across the battlefield for me to decipher any of his features, as well as the dust making the battlefield almost completely opaque, but I could see that he was turned towards me. My lips curled into a sadistic smirk at the ostensible pain that I had caused that rotten piece of scum.

I whirled around as I felt a reluctant, yet desperate tap to my shoulder. My gaze rested on Feliciano, who now tugged me up onto my feet and handed me my canteen, his movements hasty as he looked a bit miffed by my cold smile. The depths of his honey brown eyes held an almost tangible desperation and his normally light brown hair held every piece of nature available from the earth. I finally realized just how dire the situation had become, and I swiftly grabbed my gun and darted after Feliciano and Jack as we retreated from battle.

Gunshots echoed around the murky clearing as our little group cringed with the realization that we're only a gunshot away from taking our last breath. This thought seemed to make us sprint even faster, zigzagging through the towering trees and eventually converging with three other platoons.

Suddenly I heard a deafening roar emanating from the right side of our group and before I realized what was going on, I had been blown off of my feet. _Bombs? Fuck! _The world seemed to whir around me in a blur as I felt pain shoot through my back as I had apparently crashed into the trunk of a tall weeping willow tree. I could vaguely hear the sounds of another barrage of explosions erupting around me, boots squelching through the sticky marsh, and voices screaming what seemed like a spurt of nonsense to my muddled mind.

I barely managed to sit up properly, pain throbbing throughout my body as I slowly opened my eyes to find what had been three full platoons reduced to what seemed like forty horribly, charred beyond recognition bodies. And ashes. So many ashes.

My head whipped around to search for any survivors. Anger and sadness formed a knot in my stomach as I spotted only about ten of my companions out of what had been fifty. I heard a few groans as I watched them attempt to pull themselves off of the ground, but failed due to severe injury.

My eyes widened considerably as I fought to stand. A sudden, small movement close by caught my eye and I found my gaze resting on someone who had been practically charred alive. I stumbled over to them, dropping to my knees as I observed them whilst listening to the sound of gunshots in the distance, fear pricking my spine as an ominous thought flashed through my mind. What if it's the Americans coming to finish what they'd started?

I barely noticed the steady drizzle of rain falling through the canopy of leaves overhead and splashing onto the ground in small puffs of mist. My attention was brought back to the charred body when it moved yet again, only this time it had been only a slight twitch. A deep frown tugged at my lips with the knowledge that this person is my comrade, and now they've been reduced to nothing but a charred, war torn body. I could see that they were still breathing, though there was an abnormal rise and fall of their chest from what I could see at such an odd angle. There were only a few features that weren't completely obscured by the ashes and char covering their body; for one, I could decipher that this person is male. His uniform was tattered and his hair matted down with the weight of the ashes and grit. My gaze trailed to his neck, where I could see a familiar piece of blackened fabric wrapped about it, and I gaped as I realized exactly who exactly I was staring at.

"Fucking hell! Ivan!"

The man who'd become a dear friend to me over these past few eight months of hell feebly attempted to move himself onto his back, but failed horrendously as he began to cough uncontrollably, blood bubbling from his lips and dribbling down his chin until it slowly fell to the ground, painting the scorched, wet grass a sickening crimson. I clenched my fists so hard that I thought my knuckles would shatter as I stared down at my fallen comrade, whose gaze had met mine, albeit weakly.

"A-Arthur…" Ivan managed to choke out before falling into yet another coughing fit. I held back tears as I gently turned him over onto his back, attempting to disregard the grunts of pain as I began propping the upper half of his body up onto my leg. "D-Do you have…any v-vodka on…you?"

"Tch, you bloody idiot. You already know the answer to that." I mumbled, a small smile tugging at the corners of my lips at his love of vodka. I thought of all the times we'd been out drinking and he'd have to drag me out of the pub whilst I shouted blasphemy at him all the way back to my flat for forcing me to part with my precious liquor. It takes what seems like a million shots to get Ivan even a tad bit tipsy. I'd never admit it out loud, but I can't hold liquor to save my life.

Ivan had always been a bit bizarre; perhaps even a few of his screws were loose. He has a thick Russian accent, for he originates from said country. He moved to England when he was six years old. His mood was interchangeable, usually from gentle to cruel, though when I ponder over the matter now, I've grown quite used to it, so much so that I'd never even noticed it anymore. What were no doubt the two most conspicuous traits that stood him out from the rest of the crowd were those bizarre, purple eyes as well as the light silver hair. I'd always assumed the strange purple was caused by colored contacts, but it didn't seem as if he were wearing them.

"Ivan, you can't die," I paused, swallowing hard as the man's eyelids began to flutter. "At least…not like this…"

"I believe it's about time for me to go, Kirkland," Ivan murmured, his eyes threatening to close. He coughed yet again before attempting to continue his statement, his voice withering away to only a whisper. "Just…don't…die."

I watched in silence as his eyes slowly closed, his warm smile never faltering as he slipped silently into an endless sleep. The miniscule movements of his chest had stilled completely, no longer rising and falling in an uneven rhythm. I allowed my gaze to slip to the scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. It must have unwound during the explosion. I reached out, my hand shaking, and clutched the charred fabric. I stared at it, turning it around carefully in my gloved fingers, remembering how he'd cherished this scarf, for his sister had given it to him as a gift. After a moment of silence, I unsteadily rewrapped the scarf around my fallen comrade's neck, my head bowed.

Suddenly I heard the squelching of boots advancing towards me and my head shot up just in time to spot a familiar platoon racing over to meet me. The platoon leader, Ace, skidded to a halt behind me as well as my other comrades in the platoon.

"Arthur, what in God's name happ—" Ace murmured, but paused when his gaze trailed to Ivan. "Holy shit, they got _Ivan_. Damn, even in death that man's still smiling." The brunette shook his head slowly, as if he couldn't believe it. I snorted bitterly, my bright green eyes scanning the platoon for Feliciano, who had been literally blown away from me during the explosion.

"Thomas, Oliver, Charlie—go assist the wounded. Looks like we'll be carrying them back to basecamp," Ace commanded, adjusting his dark green military cap before continuing. "After you've finished, pay your final goodbyes to Ivan."

The three of them nodded gravely, trudging over to the wounded who I hadn't even heard greet the arrival of the platoon.

A few of my comrades had trudged to my side, offering friendly pats on the back and feebly attempting to lift my spirits. I barely heard their words that were supposedly reassuring, and I pulled myself up from the ground as Ace hoisted Ivan's body from the ground. As if in silent agreement, our platoon headed over to a small apple tree that stood out from the rest of the towering trees. The world seemed to cease its spinning as Ace gently placed Ivan's body underneath the small tree. All was silent as each and every one of us allowed the fond memories to wash over us and sweep us into another, much happier world, if only for a few short minutes. Almost all of them probably involving vodka.

When a chorus of barrages sounded from somewhere to our left, our platoon began to traipse through the trees again, trekking in the general direction of basecamp. With every step we took parting from Ivan, my boots would stick themselves into the mud and I'd have to forcefully pull them up to continue at the platoon's swift pace.

I glanced over my shoulder at Ivan's still form one last time before solemnly averting my attention back to the backs of my companions, the rain suddenly seeming to grasp the mood and coming down in a downpour.

I remained silent for the rest of the trip to basecamp.

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There you have it.

How'd you like it? It's a bit bland for now; there'll be more action and such in the very near future (and Alfred :D). Well, that is if I get reviews. What's the point of writing a story if no one reads it?

Yes, I totally killed off Russia in the first chapter. SORRY RUSSIA FANS OH MY GOSH DON'T KILL ME.

So…review?

I think yes.


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